I feel the peace of Llyn Syfaddan enter my soul. All that I am has come from this place, and one day I shall walk into the waters and let them take me, so that in the end I shall be as one with the Afanc. The thought forces me to recall my vision. Did it foretell Brynach’s death? I have pondered this question over and over, and I think not. Water in my visions often signifies rebirth, or at the very least, a significant change. I have convinced myself that this is the case. Or, in truth, I continue to try to convince myself. Could it be that I am simply unwilling, unable, to accept the alternative? Can I not allow myself to read properly my own prophecy? Could it be that my heart is too tender where Brynach is concerned, and such feelings as I have for him are clouding my insight? Must I always be a Seer first and a woman second? Of course, I know the answer to this question. I take a step forward, so that I move from the softness of the snow to the grit of the shoreline, cold water lapping at my boots. If I am wrong, if the vision showed me my prince’s possible death, then I must warn him. What is shown need not be the outcome of events, not if the prince is furnished with foreknowledge, so that he can act, can prepare, can protect himself. I stoop low and dip my hand into the lake, lifting the water in my cupped hand to take a sip. It is cold enough to make my belly knot, but there is a sweetness to it that can be found nowhere else. As I crouch, my eyes are close to level with the surface of the lake, and I detect the faintest movement farther out. A series of ripples, but not spanning outward as if a stone has been dropped from a height. Rather, these form an arrowhead, giving away the motion of something under the water.

Something slow.

Something heavy.

Something great.